


we live to love another day

by ernestdummkompf (JehanFerres)



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, anatole just cries, dolokhov does his best, dolokhov loves his mother and so do i, he is full of empathy and sympathy, hélène is already dead, pierre is a sweet man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 06:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11202414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanFerres/pseuds/ernestdummkompf
Summary: When Hélène Kuragina dies, Pierre calls for both Anatole and Dolokhov.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, HONESTLY, this is the first thing i write for this GOD-FORSAKEN FANDOM and it's MY OWN GIRL BEING DEAD and her BROTHER ANGSTING. anyway i enjoyed making anatole suffer almost as much as i enjoyed writing pierre being GOOD AND SWEET. this new special interest has made me write more than i have for months so thanks dave malloy;

If Dolokhov hadn’t known the magnitude of the recent bad news, he would have assumed that Anatole – lying prone on a couch with a hand thrown over his eyes and his feet raised on a cushion – was simply being his melodramatic self. He probably would have poked gentle fun of Anatole’s apparently _delicate constitution_.

But, he supposed, in this situation it was more than fair to faint, and not laughable. From what Dolokhov had heard, poor Pierre had seen him and caught him before any lasting physical damage could be done, and then deposited him onto a couch.

“Anatole?” Crouched down beside the couch, Dolokhov spoke softly, so as not to startle him if he was awake. He put a cautious hand to Anatole’s stomach, between two of the buttons on his uniform. “Anatole, are you awake?”

Just as Dolokhov was about to give up and revert to just stroking Anatole’s hair in the hopes that it might comfort him, Anatole moved his hand from his face, his eyes opening blearily. Dolokhov managed a weak smile, taking his hand away and standing up to give Anatole some space.

It seemed to take Anatole a few seconds to register who Dolokhov was – understandable, in the circumstances – and a few seconds more to register what had happened. But when he did, his eyes widened and he launched himself bodily into Dolokhov’s arms, burying his face in his shoulder.

Before Dolokhov could regain his composure and bearings (and send the dog back to the corner, as she had got to her feet to come and investigate the strange man who had apparently thrown himself at her master), Anatole tensed, as if with realisation, and screamed, horrifically and viscerally, into Dolokhov’s shoulder so that it would be muffled in his jacket. Not so shocked as to freeze, Dolokhov put one hand to the back of Anatole’s head, tightening his arms around him and rubbing his back. He was unable to find the words to provide comfort, but he hoped that just his presence would help, if only a little.

“…Anatole?” When he finally stopped screaming, Dolokhov chanced moving away, but found that Anatole, now breathing heavily and noisily, was sagging against his shoulder. “Anatole- don’t- I’m not as strong as Pierre-” This last phrase came out in a garbled mess of French, Russian, and god knows what other languages, as Dolokhov discovered that trying to reason with a man who had literally screamed himself into unconsciousness was a losing battle.

As Anatole all but collapsed to the floor, Dolokhov swore loudly and creatively enough and caused enough general commotion, with the dog leaping to her feet and barking with concern and a general want to be seen to be joining in, to bring Pierre running in. The poor man looked more haggard than ever, but he still grabbed Anatole before he could hit his head on something with a sharp corner, and carefully resettled him on the couch, this time with Dolokhov propping his feet up.

Pierre leaned forwards, the dog sniffing around him, and tried taking Anatole’s pulse. Unfortunately, he did this at the precise moment at which Anatole regained consciousness. Anatole cringed away from him with a look of genuine horror, accidentally kicking Dolokhov and half-punching Pierre in the jaw. Dolokhov leaned over and caught hold of Anatole’s wrist before he could do any lasting damage. Fortunately fainting for the second time had taken most of the strength out of Anatole, as he slumped back against the couch, jerking his arm free from Dolokhov’s hands and pressing the crook of his elbow to his eyes.

Not wanting any permanent injury, Pierre leaned away, and gestured towards the door so that he and Dolokhov could talk properly in private, without the heightened risk of being overheard, or Anatole complaining at being talked about – or more accurately being cast in a negative light, as was inevitable.

With a nervous glance towards Anatole’s face, Dolokhov nodded, and replaced the pillow under Anatole’s feet as he slid off the couch and out from under Anatole’s feet. The dog trotted out the room after the two men, unwilling to be left alone with only Anatole for company. Dolokhov sent her back in, and closed the door after her.

“I invited him here,” Pierre explained, sounding as though it was the first thing he had said in several days – which was a reasonable hypothesis. “As soon as I… found her.” Dolokhov nodded, unsure of what to say and still somewhat wary of Pierre as the tall man lead the way down the hallway. Dolokhov was unwilling to leave Anatole, but followed. “He won’t wake,” Pierre said softly, as though reading his thoughts.

“And the dog will warn us if he does,” Dolokhov affirmed, still uncertain.

“He just… paced for the whole first day,” Pierre seemed to be addressing the grand staircase that he and Dolokhov now stood facing, and not Dolokhov himself. “He wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink.”

Had they been closer, or had he had less natural suspicion of Pierre after the duel, Dolokhov probably would have touched Pierre’s arm; made some gesture of comfort. As it was, he simply folded his arms against his back and looked across at him. Pierre didn’t make eye contact, or even glance towards him.

“She was his sister,” Dolokhov said, finally, after searching his brain for something to say for a minute. “You know as well as I how close they were.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, practically before, Dolokhov regretted them. But rather than flying into a rage as he would have in what felt like the distant past, Pierre simply laughed, briefly and humourlessly.

“I was with him when he collapsed for the first time,” Pierre continued, with no acknowledgement of what Dolokhov wanted to assure him was an unintentional innuendo, but he let Pierre take the lead. A shudder ran through Pierre’s large frame, as though reliving something he wanted to bury and forget – much like Dolokhov suspected he would like to do with Hélène. “I was asleep,” he continued, his voice haunted. “And he shrieked her name, once, and by the time I got to him, he was already on his knees.

“You tried to rouse him?” Dolokhov prompted.

Pierre nodded. “Nothing,” he replied. “Even when I picked him up.” That was worrisome. While when he was content and at ease, Anatole would tolerate affectionate or amorous touches from anybody, when he was disquieted, he would shy away from anybody but Dolokhov and Hélène, hence the first to poor Pierre’s face, which now looked slightly red where Anatole had connected with the skin. “His eyes were open,” Pierre went on. “But he was unresponsive. ‘Catatonic’,” he went on, as if quoting something.

Frustrated, Dolokhov kicked at a faded patch of carpet with his boot. “The maid told me that you had been watching him,” he went on, if only to break the silence. “Has he still said nothing, apart from…?” He grimaced at the thought of Anatole shrieking, and trailed off.

“No,” Pierre confirmed. “I tried to talk to him, but…”

“I saw how he was,” Dolokhov agreed, now putting a hand gently on Pierre’s forearm. “And you… are coping…?” he asked awkwardly.

Pierre sighed. “I had little connection with her,” he said, surprisingly diplomatically. “Anatole was closer to her.”

 _As was I,_ Dolokhov thought, but didn’t say. The affair had been a more rumour, but it seemed inappropriate to mention it now, even as an attempt to clear Hélène’s name, which he desperately wanted to do. Still, Pierre would probably get plenty of that when Anatole started to recover.

It was best to get straight to the point, Dolokhov thought.

“Why did you send for me?” he asked, looking straight into Pierre’s eyes. Pierre looked away, as he always had. “If you wish, I will take care of Anatole?”

“I… had hoped that you would be able to rouse him,” Pierre said. _And you have,_ he _didn’t_ say. “He needs you.” Seeing Dolokhov’s expression change to one of mild fright, he changed tack. “Or-or somebody who can condole him. I can’t. We have never cared for each other.”

Dolokhov nodded. “I will. Of course.” He looked away. “But… our friendship is far from what it used to be. His attempt to abduct Countess Rostova…” He grimaced at the thought and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Of course, of course,” Pierre said, noticeably uncomfortable. “If-if the idea causes undue discomfort I can send for a doctor, but…”

“No, no,” Dolokhov said, too quickly. “I will do it. Of course.”

As though to break the awkward silence, Dolokhov’s dog barked. Hoping that she just wanted company and was lonely, Dolokhov and Pierre both headed down the hall and back into the room.

“Oh, Anatole…” He was sat on the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest sobbing convulsively, the dog worriedly nosing his chest and hands and whimpering. Dolokhov pushed her back off the sofa and sent her back to the corner with an apologetic glance back to Pierre, and then sat down beside Anatole, briefly at a loss for what to do, until he pulled Anatole tightly into his arms. Sympathetic tears springing to his eyes, Pierre slipped from the room, removing his glasses and scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

When he realised that Anatole was crying to the extent that he was struggling for breath, wheezing and making choking sounds with every breath, Dolokhov unwillingly pulled away from him, and helped him to sit up rather than hunch up under his own weight. “It’s alright, Anatole,” he said softly, stroking his back until he very gradually stopped sobbing. “I’m here now and it’s alright, but you need to breathe; I can’t have you fainting again.” He tried to keep his voice even, but failed.

“It isn’t alright, Fedya,” Anatole said, his voice pained and choked. Dolokhov put his arms around him again, confident that he was breathing properly again. “She’s _dead_ , Fedya, it can’t be it won’t be it…” He trailed off, sobbing again. Dolokhov’s heart broke for him, a strange experience for one usually so unsympathetic.

“Pierre sent for me,” Dolokhov soothed, putting one hand against the back of Anatole’s head, while his other arm wrapped tightly around his upper chest as one might comfort a child or an infant. “Do you want me to stay? Or would you prefer if I left?” he asked, although he already knew what the answer would be.

“No! Don’t go,” Anatole said, his tone mid-way between desperate and pathetic. He tightened his arms further around Dolokhov and whimpered softly into his shoulder.

“I won’t,” Dolokhov assured him, stroking Anatole’s hair. Ordinarily, he would have reached around and removed Anatole’s hands from the back of his jacket, but now he couldn’t bring himself to. “I’ll stay if you want me to.”

“I can’t stay here,” Anatole said, his voice muffled against Dolokhov’s shoulder. “I _can’t_. Please, Fedya.” He sounded frantic, his breath growing quicker. Dolokhov shushed him and stroked his hair.

“I will tell Pierre, and we can leave when you’re breathing properly,” Dolokhov said softly.

Anatole relaxed somewhat, his hands loosening from the back of Dolokhov’s shirt, and he nodded. “I… thank you.” He looked up, seeming more a child than a man in his twenties. Dolokhov put a hand on Anatole’s cheek, and settled back against the arm of the couch. Anatole’s head went to his chest.

“I’m sorry I never wrote,” Dolokhov said, after a while. “I promise I didn’t forget you.”

Anatole just sniffled as Dolokhov tried to settle the two of them down comfortably, in a way that wouldn’t make his legs go to sleep and he wouldn’t be kicking Anatole in the ribs. “You were angry.” That was the most observant sentence Anatole had ever said in his life.

“I was frustrated, too. And worried that you were going to get yourself into trouble,” Dolokhov said, glad to be able to speak honestly to Anatole for once. “Do you feel better?” His voice was soft. “If you do, I will go and tell Pierre that we will be leaving.

Anatole nodded and moved so that Dolokhov could get up. Dolokhov called the dog over, and she rested her soft head on Anatole’s lap, looking up at him with his imploring eyes. “Look after him,” Dolokhov told her as he left the room.

“Pierre?” Fortunately, Pierre was easy to find – even in such a massive, empty house.

“Is he recovering?” Pierre asked, getting straight to the point. His face was pale, and he had obviously been crying.

Dolokhov wanted to embrace him too, the overly sympathetic old man, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded. “I managed to get some sense out of him.” He tried to think of how to phrase what he was going to say. “He can’t stay here.”

“Of course,” Pierre said, sympathy shining on his face. “I don’t want to seem keen to get rid of him… or of you… but I was worried that being here was distressing him.”

“I’m so glad you understand,” Dolokhov said. “I’m sure he’d no consideration for it, what with the state he’s in, but I didn’t want to appear rude, or ungrateful for your hospitality.”

Pierre smiled, weakly, removing his glasses to wipe his eyes. Without thinking, Dolokhov passed him a handkerchief. “Thank you,” Pierre said softly. “I feel to blame for his…” He searched for the word. “His sickness.” Dolokhov stared quizzically and impetuously at him. “I… I drove him away from Moscow. He hadn’t seen her for… for years, until I-I…” He turned away, sniffing, and out of respect and anxiety at seeing Pierre so affected Dolokhov did the same.

“He wouldn’t be here to weep on your couches if you _hadn’t_ told him to leave. If you hadn’t killed him I imagine I would have,” Dolokhov said, after a minute of both trying to pretend that Pierre wasn’t crying and Dolokhov searching for the right words to comfort him. It was so much _easier_ to calm Anatole; just pet him a bit and pay him some compliments, and if that didn’t work hold him. Pierre was a different case entirely.

Finally, Pierre broke the resulting silence, with a gentle, “When will you be leaving? And do you require transport?”

“It’s late now,” Dolokhov said, aware that he was imposing himself upon poor Pierre. Under the circumstances, he supposed that it was forgivable. “We will leave tomorrow,” he said, more decisively than he had thought he would. “Had Anatole many things when he arrived?”

“No, just the clothes that he was wearing.” Pierre frowned. “I’m sure he’s some here.”

“He left most of his things when he went to Petersburg, and he hasn’t got taller, or stouter.” If anything, he had lost weight. “I’m sure I can get his old clothes tailored to fit, if they don’t still fit.” He paused to think, launching into logistics to avoid thinking about how upset Anatole was. “We shall walk. It doesn’t take more than an hour and a half. Two hours with the both of them.”

“Both of them?” Pierre repeated, confused and more than a little concerned.

“Anatole and the dog,” Dolokhov explained. He looked out of the window at the dark sky, which could have suggested anything in the winter. “Of course, I’ll relieve you of his old clothes that he left here,” Dolokhov said, almost asking why Pierre had even kept them, since he had apparently hated Anatole.

“I see,” Pierre said. “Of course, you will be more than welcome to stay here until then.” Dolokhov tried to hide his relief at the comment. “I’m not in the habit of throwing men out on the streets.” He almost smiled.

“I’ll stay with Anatole.” He thought about Pierre’s earlier comment – _he needs you_ , but then pushed the thought back out of his head, promising himself to address it later. “I doubt either of us will sleep much.” It struck Dolokhov that he had said that precise phrase to Pierre before, what felt like aeons ago. That time, it had made Pierre blush, sputter, and order him out. Now, his face softened.

“Nor I,” he admitted. “I haven’t since…” He gestured. It showed; his usually pale face was haggard, with dark circles under his reddened eyes. “Would he mind if I tried to speak to him, do you think?” he asked, sounding genuinely worried.

“I don’t think you would get much conversation out of him,” Dolokhov said. “But he won’t object, I don’t think.” _And I want the company._

“Then…” He nodded towards the door. “If you don’t mind, I mean,” he said, worried that he would be intruding.

“Of course not.”

Anatole didn’t seem to have moved when Dolokhov pushed the door open again, still sat, staring blankly into space, one hand on the dog’s head. She idly wagged her tail, and Anatole seemed to snap out of his previous stupor. Dolokhov sat back down beside him on the couch, beckoning Pierre over. Sensing that he needed comfort, the dog pushed her long snout into Pierre’s hand. He smiled down and petted her soft ears.

“As soft between the ears as on them,” Dolokhov said softly, a phrase that he had originally used to describe Anatole. Pierre chuckled despite himself, and sat down in one of the great armchairs. The dog, seeming to like Pierre most, laid down at his feet, her head on her forelegs as she stared off into nothingness.

“Anatole?” Dolokhov finally hazarded speaking. “We’ll walk back together tomorrow morning. First thing.” Anatole nodded weakly. “You’re in no state for it tonight.” He didn’t need the explanation, but Dolokhov still felt that he had to offer it. “And Pierre?” Pierre looked up, clearly not expecting to be addressed at such a moment. “Feel free to visit.”

He knew as well as Pierre that a house formerly inhabited by two people would feel barren with only one resident. He would never admit it, but he had missed Anatole terribly; searched for him occasionally, before remembering that no, he was in Petersburg. He had missed him terribly, but still never written, somehow. He had waited, what felt like infinitely, for Anatole to write first, but of course he never _had_. Too afraid, probably.

Still, he was here now, when Anatole needed him the most. That was what mattered.

Before long, Anatole was asleep against Dolokhov’s chest, and Pierre, who until then had been staring sadly off into the middle distance as he had when he had first visited Dolokhov after the duel, turned to him. “Will you be alright here, for tonight?” he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Anatole, a notoriously light sleeper.

Dolokhov nodded and considered kissing Anatole on the forehead, but then thought better of it. “I’ve slept in worse places,” he replied.

Pierre laughed, bless him. It was a pleasant sound – even the dog, wagging her tail softly, seemed to agree. Dolokhov had to smile; Pierre was such a good man, unable to see the bad in anybody for more than a few days, even Anatole, who had left the poor Rostova girl on death’s door. It seemed only to be Hélène he managed to sustain a low opinion of, poor girl.

Well, maybe that would lift, with her gone.

“I’ll send a Maid to bring you some quilts, if you like?” Pierre suggested.

Dolokhov nodded, relieved. He had wanted to ask, but not wanted to seem rude. “That would be kind of you; thank you,” he said, smiling.

“One for each of you?” Pierre said, with an obvious implication of _not that you’ll both need one, with him lying on you like that_ behind his words. His expression was, Dolokhov noticed, almost fatherly. He would make a good parent, Dolokhov imagined sleepily. “I could bring the dog a blanket as well,” he suggested, with the merest hint of a joke.

Dolokhov took the bait, relieved at the light humour. “Fortunately Pavlova is hairier than the average woman – or man,” he quipped. “But thank you.” He smiled, genuinely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love writing this fic; i actually adore it. i really just want to write dolokhov embracing anatole in various situations but this is the best way of doing it.

Dolokhov would have liked to have said that he slept well, but he didn’t. Even if he hadn’t had the uncomfortable arm of Pierre’s couch cutting into his back and the buttons of Anatole’s uniform prodding him in the chest and stomach while he slept, he doubted that he would have slept well. It wasn’t an unfamiliar experience – he never could sleep well when somebody else was in the bed with him, even when he was happy. But Anatole didn’t wake, lying under the two quilts, with his head resting against Dolokhov’s chest and his hand on Dolokhov’s stomach.

He was more than happy simply to keep Anatole company until they could leave in the morning.

Somehow, he managed to fall asleep. He woke in the morning when the sun was just beginning to rise, with his head leaning backwards off the arm of the couch, his neck and back aching, and Anatole still asleep on him, now lying on his stomach with one hand under Dolokhov’s neck and the other hanging off the couch. Usually, Dolokhov would have woken him and shoved him off but given the circumstances he couldn’t bring himself to.

Instead, he carefully shifted so that Anatole’s head was against his shoulder rather than his cheek being pressed against one of his uniform buttons, and pulled the quilts from where they had fallen to the floor. He draped one of them over Anatole, and then slid carefully out from under him. Anatole made a noise, but didn’t stir.

Pierre, on the other hand, appeared from the quite talking in the hallway to have got up. Dolokhov considered going out and talking to him, but he didn’t want to leave Anatole alone, given that last time he had done that he had returned to Anatole in tears and a worried dog. Instead, he sat down beside the couch, gently petting Anatole’s hair with the dog now lying on his lap and hoping that somebody would come in to see how the two of them were.

Pierre quietly opened the door about half an hour later, just as Dolokhov was beginning to consider waking Anatole to get the two of them home, because staying was just delaying the inevitable breakdown when they got back. When he saw that Anatole was still asleep, Pierre went to leave, but Dolokhov smiled. “Feel free to stay if you like. He didn’t wake when I got up, so I doubt he will now.” Pleased to see her new friend, Pavlova trotted over to Pierre, who smiled down at her and stroked her ears. Dolokhov pulled himself unsteadily to his feet.

“Did you sleep well?” Pierre asked, still fussing over Pavlova.

“He did.” Dolokhov gestured over to Anatole. “I slept… well, no worse than I was expecting to. And you?” He hoped the question wasn’t prying. He hadn’t even tried to make conversation with Pierre for some years, and he found that it didn’t return readily to him.

Pierre shrugged his broad shoulders. “Much the same, I’m afraid,” he admitted. Keen to stop talking about such upsetting topics for both their sakes, he asked, “are you sure you’ll both be alright walking back?”

“We’ll be fine,” Dolokhov said. “We’ve walked back together from here many times, and in worse conditions than these.” There wasn’t much snow on the ground, and it was warm enough that they would both be able to feel their hands on the way back. No doubt Pavlova, spoiled thing that she was, would be a little precious about a slog through the snow, but she would have to put up with it.

“I wouldn’t ordinarily fret about it,” Pierre admitted, not wanting to seem too much like the worried mother hen he was at heart, “but the state he was in last night…” He shook his head. “Obviously, you know him better than I…”

“I’ll be able to watch him,” Dolokhov said. “I won’t let anything happen to him.” He was certain that he had said these exact words to Pierre before, hauling a drunken Anatole back from a party when it was negative twenty outside and there was frost on the ground slippery enough to catch out a sober man, let alone Anatole, barely able to stand and giggling.

“Well, if you’re sure…” Dolokhov and Anatole had been nothing but a burden upon Pierre for as long as they had known him, but he was still concerned for their safety. “I can send Anatole’s things after you,” Pierre added thoughtfully. “I know you said some of his clothes were still with you.”

“Oh, yes,” Dolokhov said, pleased that one of them had thought of it. “Thank you, that would be helpful.” He could cope with keeping an eye on Anatole and Pavlova, but more than that would have been too much. At least Pierre had the forethought to send them on.

Pierre nodded, and, unable to think of anything more to say, excused himself. “Anatole?” Dolokhov turned his attention back to his still sleeping friend, putting a hand on his waist and not quite shaking him. When Anatole’s pale blue eyes blearily opened, Dolokhov helped him to his feet. “Did you sleep well?” Dolokhov was sure that he already knew the answer, but he still wanted to check.

Looking just as disheartened as he had yesterday, Anatole sighed and shrugged. “No worse than expected.” He looked away, and then back again. “You?” So, he _hadn’t_ woken during the night.

Dolokhov nodded. “Much the same, I’m afraid,” he said, putting his arm around Anatole’s waist. Anatole leaned into it, feeling needier for affection than he ever had in his life, and pressed his face against Dolokhov’s neck.

Neither of them spoke for a couple of minutes, Dolokhov happy for Anatole to just cling to him, until he finally felt that he had to say something. “We can leave as soon as you’re ready,” he said gently, making no move to extricate Anatole from against his neck. “Some of your clothes are still at my house so you’ve no need to worry on that count.”

Anatole finally moved away with a nod, and thankfully kissed Dolokhov on the cheek. Ordinarily, Dolokhov would have brushed him off, but he couldn’t bring himself to now. After years of not seeing one another, this was quite the reunion.

“I was worried, you know,” Dolokhov said, leading the way out with a gentle hand on Anatole’s back. Pavlova trotted out after the two of them, keen for adventure (which, being a dog, she found everything to be). “When Pierre suddenly summoned me. I was half expecting another duel,” he quipped. Anatole managed half a laugh.

“You didn’t know?” he asked, after a moment.

“No. Not until I arrived. A maid told me,” he explained, keeping his arm around Anatole, more for mutual comfort than for anything else by this point. “And you gave me quite a fright,” he said with obvious affection, “fainting like that.”

Anatole looked confused more than anything else. “Didn’t you know?” Dolokhov asked, worried. “When I came in and woke you up. You screamed, and then fainted.”

Anatole looked horrified. “I… hardly remember the past few days…” His voice and body trembled, and Dolokhov wanted to pull him back into his arms and comfort him.

“I’m sorry,” he settled for after a moment. “I won’t mention it again.”

Anatole leaned against him for support, thankful, as Pierre came down the hallways, thankful to see Anatole conscious and looking somewhat more lucid than he had been for the past few days. Anatole all but jumped away, keeping his distance, but Dolokhov managed to adopt an easy smile.

“I don’t want to pry,” Pierre said, “but you are sure that you will both…” He smiled down at Pavlova, who wagged her tail excitedly at him. “ _All_ will be alright walking back.”

“Of course, _mon cher_ ,” Anatole said, sounding too breezy for a man who had had a breakdown under twenty-four hours ago. Dolokhov recognised the defence mechanism that he had known in Anatole all his life, and cringed inwardly.

“As I said before,” Dolokhov said, with more honesty than Anatole, hoping that Pierre would know not to listen to what Anatole said from his expression, “I have taken him back under worse conditions, in a much worse state.” Anatole was no longer behind Dolokhov, but stood beside him. Dolokhov elbowed him gently in the side and Pierre smiled.

“Safe journey, then,” Pierre said, sounding still concerned and more as though he was conceding than agreeing. He clasped Dolokhov’s shoulder awkwardly, and Dolokhov smiled at him. Anatole clearly didn’t feel up to affectionate touches from anybody other than Dolokhov, and Pierre knew better than to try.

“Come along.” Dolokhov lead Anatole and Pavlova out, with a thankful glance back to Pierre. Neither of them knew what to say in response, so it was easier not to say anything at all. They walked along in silence for a few minutes, Dolokhov watching Pavlova try to avoid the patches of snow and ice, and shake off her feet when she got water on her legs. “How are you feeling, Anatole?” He knew that Anatole hadn’t wanted to say when they were still in Pierre’s house, but he hoped that the change of scenery would help.

“I’ve never felt worse.” Usually, Dolokhov would put a statement like this from Anatole down to simple melodrama, but now it worried him. He gently touched Anatole’s arm to try to comfort him, knowing that he wouldn’t accept a hug in public. “I… don’t even feel like I understand it yet,” he said softly.

“Anatole…” Dolokhov was upset too, of course, but he knew that his hurt was incomparable to what Anatole must have been feeling. Hélène had always been Anatole’s closest friend, even though he professed to love Dolokhov more. “We can talk, when we get home, if you like?” he suggested.

Anatole just shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself. “There isn’t anything _to_ talk about. Hélène is dead. I won’t ever…” He stopped dead, seeming as though he was about to break down again, and Dolokhov put himself between Anatole and the street, even though nobody was around.

When Anatole managed to calm himself down, the two of them continued, with Pavlova, in silence back to Dolokhov’s house. “Mother?” Dolokhov called softly, when he pushed open the door. “I’m back. Anatole is with me.”

If Maria Ivanova Dolokhova was awake, she gave no indication of it, so Dolokhov took Anatole upstairs, while Pavlova went to look for Maria for attention.


End file.
